


Love in a Time of Politics

by Roselightfairy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cameos, Community: unconventionalcourtship, Cultural Sharing, Diplomacy, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, Family, Friends With Benefits, M/M, No War AU, Politics, Social drinking, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Temporary Gimli/other, glamping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Gimli son of Glóin has been living with an aggravating secret – a bed-partner who no longer wants to share his bed. At an annual diplomatic council, he decides that things have gone far enough and initiates a confrontation – but takes a wrong turn and storms into someone else’s tent instead.  Legolas, on the other hand, is taken aback when a strange dwarf surprises him in his tent and berates him for toying with him.  But the more time they spend together, the more overwhelmed he becomes by his feelings for this startling new friend . . .No War AU, written for the Unconventional Courtship challenge.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 62
Kudos: 343
Collections: Unconventional Courtship





	Love in a Time of Politics

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [Unconventional Courtship](https://unconventionalcourtship.dreamwidth.org/) challenge of summer 2020. The prompt: pick a summary from a Harlequin or Mills & Boon romance novel and write a story for your OTP that fits it. (I highly recommend writing for this challenge, if you are interested - it’s going on through the month, you can sign up anytime, and even just reading the summaries is such a treat!) The romance novel I picked is called “Getting It!” by Rhonda Nelson, and the summary is below:
> 
> _Zora Anderson has a secret that could ruin her-her boyfriend doesn’t sleep with her! She decides to spice up a conference and sets a seductive trap. Only it’s not her boyfriend’s bed she ends up in... Tate Hatcher can’t believe it when a strange woman surprises him in the shower and starts to berate him for not seeing to her needs. But the more he’s around her, the more Tate’s inclined to give the sassy woman a taste of what she’s been missing…_
> 
> This fic is elf-dwarf canon/fanon-compliant, so I had to do a good deal of tweaking with the plot, but it was so much fun to work with! It is also set in a no-Sauron AU (though I did NOT go all the way back in the lore to fully rework the universe) in which Mirkwood is the Greenwood and many kingdoms in Middle-earth have an annual trade and diplomacy conference.
> 
> HUGE thanks to DeHeerKonijn for generous beta work (and for making me stop beating myself up; an underrated and yet so necessary service!) and just for being awesome and invested in this.
> 
> I had so much fun writing this, and I hope you all enjoy reading it!

“Finally,” Glóin grunted when the sight of distant tents and corrals came into view at last.

Gimli repressed a fond smile and studiously avoided looking over at his father. Glóin did not travel as well any longer as he had done in his glory days, and he had borne the journey from Erebor to Rohan well enough, but not without much complaint. He would be relieved, no doubt, when Gimli took over his diplomatic duties next year and he did not have to travel this distance any longer – but Gimli knew better than to tease him about his impending retirement.

“Soon enough, Lord Glóin,” said Njolmin from his place in front of Gimli – a positioning which afforded Gimli a very pleasant view indeed, particularly as they had journeyed up hills and Njolmin’s legs had clenched to keep his seat astride his donkey. “I can see where they have left space for us; it appears our encampment is near the Greenwood, as in past years.”

Of course, Gimli thought a bit sourly, the view might be more pleasant had he any opportunity to do more than look. For weeks he had anticipated this journey, since Njolmin’s duties at home had suddenly increased and kept him too busy for any liaisons – and yet even now that they were on the road with so few companions, it seemed they were not to be afforded any moment to themselves.

Glóin sighed. “Neighbors at home, neighbors abroad, I suppose,” he mumbled – a familiar refrain, after three years. Sometimes Gimli suspected that his father grumbled solely for complaining’s sake.

“It will give you more time to converse with the princess,” Gimli said, and could not help laughing when his father rounded on him.

Njolmin also turned around at the sound of his voice, and for a moment when their eyes caught Gimli felt that familiar spark pass between them – respect for a blow well-landed. But when he raised a suggestive eyebrow in response, Njolmin’s eyes skated past him and he turned to face forward again.

Gimli felt his smile flatten, but he tried not to frown lest he draw his father’s attention. Brief moments like this had been occurring all too often these days, and he could not quite shake his discouragement – the sense that for some reason, he was being ignored.

With the end in sight, the rest of their journey passed by only in moments, and soon enough they were being greeted by Éomer, nephew of the king of Rohan and the representative from their host country. He had taken on the duty for the first time last year, and Gimli could see that his enthusiasm at the task had not waned. He showed them to their designated space despite Glóin’s assurance that they could find their own way, and expressed his eagerness to see them in the tent later for the welcome and greetings that were customary on the first day.

That would happen in only an hour – the journey had taken them longer than in years past, leaving them with less time than they had hoped to unpack and prepare. The unpacking process, too, was unaided by the fact that Glóin had claimed the excuse of his approaching retirement and seated himself within his and Gimli’s tent as soon as it was erected, leaving the rest of them to finish on their own.

Gimli and Glóin were the only two dwarves who would be sharing a tent – which meant that Njolmin had his own. (Gimli had been sure to note this early in their journey.) Surely he would welcome a second pair of hands at his service now – whatever the nature of that service. But when he went to offer his assistance, Njolmin brushed him off with the assurance that he was nearly finished.

“Perhaps I might . . . assist elsewhere, then,” Gimli suggested in a low voice, his eyes flicking meaningfully downward.

It was the moment Njolmin ought to have snapped back that he needed no assistance, and could prove it – but instead, he merely looked away again. “Not now,” was all he said.

“Will you tell me what is the matter?” Gimli probed. “Always it is ‘not now.’ If now is not the time, then when?”

“Later,” Njolmin said. “You have your meeting to attend.”

Slipping in an encounter between meetings had in fact been one of the things Gimli had most gleefully anticipated – and had thought Njolmin would as well – but he knew a dismissal when he heard one. “So I do,” he grumbled, and stumped back to his own tent to meet his father.

* * *

Legolas ought to have checked his bags before departing, rather than leaving it up to his father’s discretion.

A table? What use had he for a _table_ in his own tent, however easily it folded up to pack? And _two_ chairs, when he had hardly any intention of using one? As if he would not be spending all his time either in Laerwen and Siril’s tent or exploring alone! Apparently his father thought he had plans to make his new home in Rohan, as if he were not anxious for the five days to already be at an end.

The contents of the first two bags had been enough; he left the rest in a pile in the corner. He was out of time to unpack, anyway; it was nearly time to attend the first meeting of the diplomatic council.

At that thought, he nearly turned back to the bags, but he sank his teeth into his lip instead and forced himself to leave his tent to meet Laerwen in hers.

“There he is!” cried Siril when he lifted the tent flap aside. She gave him a smile so proud that for a moment he almost believed he _was_ up to the task of taking her place in the meetings – but that momentary rush of confidence faded at her next words. “Are you ready?”

“No,” he said frantically. All of the courtesies his father and Laerwen had spent so long teaching him had drained out of his memory. “Laerwen, what was the proper greeting for the men of Gondor? And I have forgotten the dwarvish bow” –

“No, you have not,” said his sister, and her hand fell onto his shoulder. Laerwen had a way of looking at him sometimes, so proud and confident in him that he forgot that he was neither of those things. “And yes, you are ready.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You can do this, Legolas. I know you can.”

“Besides,” chimed in Siril, “the benefit of the position that you are to take is that as a witness, there is little expectation on you to say much. Today’s welcome and greetings will be the worst, and as Laerwen says, you know what you need to. It will come back to you when you need it.” She gave him her own reassuring smile. “And remember, after today, you need only watch and listen.”

From another who preferred listening to speaking, those words were more comforting than Laerwen’s insistence that he had not forgotten his lessons. He nodded, swallowing hard. “I will take your word for this,” he said. “So you had best not be lying to me.”

Laerwen laughed at him. “Now you are being absurd,” she said. She gave Legolas a gentle push. “I say again, you are ready. Come with me.”

Legolas took a deep, steadying breath, and tried to relax as he let it out. “If you insist,” he said.

“I do.” She turned toward the entrance, drawing him along with her grip on his shoulder. “Come along, Legolas, and let us meet our fellow diplomats.”

* * *

Three years of attending this council had worn the formalities into Gimli’s memory well enough that every greeting felt the same as the last.

Sometimes the diplomats were different – Boromir of Gondor, for instance, had taken over the primary diplomatic duties, and his brother Faramir accompanied him as his second; the princess of the Greenwood had a different second as well; and both men from Dale were different from their predecessors. Those would play out in new ways during the councils themselves, but as for the greetings and welcome speeches – those were always the same, and rarely particularly interesting.

“Well,” said Glóin as Gimli held open their tent flap for him. “That was a promising first day.”

Gimli gave a noncommittal hum, absently taking his father’s cloak from him and hanging it over one arm. They had not finished their unpacking before the first meeting had been called, and now he set himself to rummaging through their bags for the cloak- and armor-stand they had brought. It was just as well that Njolmin had refused his offer, he thought sourly.

While he busied himself with that, Glóin settled himself into one of the seats they had already unpacked – more a pile of cushions than anything else. “It is good to see our kin from the Iron Hills again,” he continued, “and these men seem goodly folk. The new steward of Gondor, in particular, seems an easier man to deal with than his father.”

Gimli could not help chuckling at that. He had watched his father face off against Denethor of Gondor many times and always come away cursing the man’s inscrutable stare, which always seemed to glean more information than he had wished to share. His son, on the other hand, seemed much more straightforward in his dealings. “That he does,” he said, hanging their cloaks at last and taking the seat opposite his father. “Though that would not be difficult.”

Glóin nodded in concession of the point. “And the princess of the Greenwood is, of course, charming as ever.”

“Of course,” Gimli echoed. Thranduil’s daughter had the shrewdness of Denethor combined with the straightforward demeanor of his son; Glóin had a history of clashing with her at trade councils such as this one and complaining of her after the meetings. All the same, Gimli suspected that his father respected the elf princess more than he would ever admit.

“You are quiet this afternoon,” Glóin said. “It is not like you to hold back your opinion. What think you of our prospects this year?”

His father was right; it was unlike him to drift so at such an important economic and diplomatic meeting – more than that, it was harmful to their prospects. This annual meeting was the time when most of the western kingdoms reviewed their trade and military contracts, through discussions between two chief diplomats from each. Negligence in this – his last year as his father’s second – could not be countenanced.

All the same, his thoughts refused to focus enough to add any opinion of his own. “I trust your judgment,” was all he said.

Glóin raised his eyebrows. “Have you listened to a word I have said?”

“Yes!” said Gimli quickly. “And I agree with you that the man Boromir will be a more generous negotiator than his father. But come now: did you really wish for a response to your words of the Greenwood?”

Glóin let out a reluctant laugh. “Even distracted, still you can outmaneuver your father.” He shook his head. “Very well; I concede the point. For myself, I have high hopes for our showing this year – did you hear how the representative from Rohan spoke of their concerns about raids?” Gimli nodded dutifully, but his father was no longer paying attention to his reactions. “It may be that we can wrangle a more favorable deal than last year for our steel . . .”

Gimli continued to nod along as his father expounded upon his hopes and observations from the day, but in truth he was distracted again. For his own education and the good of his kingdom, he ought not to allow such lapses in thought, and yet . . .

And yet all this talk of favorable and unfavorable agreements brought up something much more personal and much less welcome.

Again. Njolmin had turned him down _again_ , and in words this time. He supposed this was at least an improvement over the blank stares of the last few weeks, or the complete disregard of his attempts at eye contact. But still, Gimli’s indignation now was born of more than mere disappointment at the loss of an evening’s entertainment. This ongoing inattention had become almost insulting.

Truth be told, Gimli was beginning to feel rather spurned.

He should have anticipated this journey for the last stage in his diplomatic training, but instead his thoughts over the last weeks had concentrated much more on the potential pleasures it offered. He had had plenty of time to daydream, after all, with Njolmin claiming to be too busy for any meetings. But here, his duties as a diplomatic escort were largely at Gimli’s and Glóin’s discretion, and Gimli had entertained plenty of pleasant thoughts about the opportunity _that_ afforded. He had imagined sneaking away when they stopped for the night to camp along their journey; perhaps even slipping away during pauses in the negotiations to indulge in some forbidden encounters, made particularly delicious by the threat of being caught in impropriety. The sort of benign danger that Njolmin had often claimed made the liaisons that much more satisfying.

Of course, Njolmin had claimed many things about their encounters. In fact, Gimli was coming to doubt even whether he _had_ been unusually busy of late, or if he had only said as much to avoid Gimli’s invitations.

Their arrangement might be one made for pleasure and liking rather than for love, but it had gone on for long enough – and to enough mutual satisfaction, Gimli had thought – that he felt he deserved some answers.

He realized abruptly that the tent had been silent for some time. He shook himself out of his daze and found his father staring at him.

“Gimli,” Glóin said. “You are glowering.”

To his surprise, Gimli realized it was true – the muscles in his brow were tense with displeasure. With an effort, he relaxed them and shook his head. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was lost in thought.”

“As I can see.” His father raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to tell me the reason?”

“No, I . . . it will not happen again.”

“Are you sure about that?” Glóin’s face grew serious. “Far be it from me to question you, Gimli, but you know the importance of this council to your training. If there is something that will distract you from it, you had best let me know, so we can address it now.”

Gimli shook his head again. “It is nothing.” Nothing he might admit to his father, anyway. He and Njolmin had not publicized their arrangement; it was not an uncommon sort among the dwarves, but from the day they first fell into bed together, Njolmin had been insistent that the secrecy added excitement.

At first, it had. The memories still brought a spark of heat to Gimli’s belly: locking eyes across the sparring courts in front of friends who did not know their secret, promising stares clashing more forcefully than their blades. Surprising one another during the bout with motions or memories from a previous night – and then excusing themselves hastily afterwards with contrived excuses to their companions. Gimli could still feel the warmth on the back of his neck of their questioning gazes; the tingling thrill of slipping away before their very eyes. 

They were pleasant memories, yes. But now the secrecy felt constraining: an ongoing frustration that he could not share with anyone. He looked at his father now and fought the sudden temptation to tell him everything.

But – no. Not now, not about this. He and Glóin might be close, but this was not something he could ask his father – especially not when he had heard nothing of it until now.

But it was true that his father had a point. This trade council was an important matter, and Gimli would not be able to focus his thoughts on negotiation or diplomacy if he could not sort himself out. And anyway – since when did he allow himself to be jerked along by a partner, however pleasing in bed? 

Perhaps that was it. Njolmin had turned to look at him earlier when he had jested, but lost interest as soon as Gimli had attempted to make an offer. Was he growing bored? Had their liaisons become dull? Where was that spark between them – that passion born of decisiveness, the almost-anger fueling the greatest pleasure?

If that was indeed the reason for Njolmin’s refusals . . . perhaps it was time Gimli put his frustration to good use.

Without explaining himself – without a further thought to what they had been discussing – he stood. “If you will excuse me, Adad. There is something to which I must attend.”

Glóin sighed, looking suddenly very tired. “Do what you must.”

As he departed from the tent, Gimli heard his father muttering, “If he would only _talk_ to me . . .”

Gimli suppressed the prick of guilt at those words. He would not break their pact of secrecy – not yet. Not until he had tried once more to speak to Njolmin himself. And perhaps if he made enough of a showing tonight, the conversation need not happen at all.

A week-long trade council containing representatives from most of the free nations in the West was not, perhaps, the best time to confront one's partner about matters of intimacy . . . but frankly, Gimli had had enough of waiting.

* * *

The elves of the Greenwood had set up their tents very close to the Erebor encampment, such that Njolmin’s was now right on the boundary line. Gimli stood before it now, summoning up all the memories of confrontations that had ended in bed, all the frustrations of the last days and weeks – letting the heat that had simmered in his blood build up into a boil, preparing to unleash the full force on his partner. Then, without bothering to announce himself, he threw the flap aside.

“Njolmin!” he barked. The soft flap of the tent did not lend the same dignity to his entrance that could have been accomplished with the slam of a door, but there was no sense wasting the head of steam he had built up in wishing for a more stately setting. “Enough is enough.” Njolmin was not immediately to be seen, but the force of his frustration had been unleashed and the words were flowing out. “Cease these games at once. Either tell me what is the matter, or put your play to good use!”

When the answer came, it was not what he had expected.

Of course, he did not know exactly what he had expected – for Njolmin to be so overcome by his display that he would pounce right then, or for a shouting match like the sort they had had of old, before that passion had turned into something else? Whatever it was, it was not to see a flurry of motion in the corner of the tent, a violent flinch – and then the raised head of a very startled Greenwood elf.

For a moment they only stared at one another. Gimli’s voice and frustration vanished at the same time, washed away in a flood of first shock and then confusion, and he allowed himself to look around. For the first time, he took in his surroundings: the simple bedroll, rather than the cots the dwarves preferred; the small, delicately-carved table set with a single goblet and a bottle of deep red wine; the long case in the corner that could only hold a bow. This was not Njolmin’s tent.

As if the presence of the elf were not enough to reveal _that_.

The heat of anger morphed into something else entirely. Statue-still in the mouth of the tent, Gimli felt his cheeks begin to burn.

“I am sorry,” said the elf tentatively. “But I do not speak your tongue. Did I offend you in some way?”

“No,” Gimli switched to Westron, hurriedly. “No, no, I – I must be in the wrong tent; I was looking for my – well, it hardly matters. Forgive me for interrupting you.” He ought to bow, to back out now, but his feet had forgotten how to move.

“It is no matter.” The elf waved a graceful hand and unfolded to his feet from where he had knelt in the corner. Unpacking a bag, Gimli saw now. “Who were you seeking? If I may ask.” 

Gimli hesitated. “It is – complicated. But suffice to say I have no grudge against you.”

“I confess, that is a relief to hear.” Gimli had little experience reading elves’ expressions, beyond these councils, but he thought perhaps this elf’s smile was a shade self-conscious. “This is the first such council I have attended; it would shame me to think I had managed to alienate an ally before the first sunset.”

Gimli frowned, now wishing he had attended more closely in the welcome meeting. Had he seen this elf there? He was clearly from the Greenwood – his appearance would have given it away even had Gimli not realized this was their camp – but he was not their primary negotiator. That was –

“Legolas?” As though Gimli’s very thought had summoned her, the tent flap was swept aside again to reveal Laerwen Thranduiliel herself, crown princess and chief diplomat of the Greenwood.

She was less composed, but somehow more intimidating than Gimli had ever seen her in formal meetings: she stood tall and imposing in the doorway, as though prepared to frighten away the intruder with the mere sight of her. Her eyes landed unerringly on Gimli and narrowed in an expression that might well have done the job, had his courage been any less. “You are a representative of Erebor, yes?” she said. “The son of Glóin. What is your business in my brother’s tent?”

“I. I was.” Gimli’s words caught around his tongue and he stammered. He could not tell this story to his own father; how ought he to explain his presence here to Thranduil’s daughter? And his son, he realized, for that was who this other elf was – the younger prince, who had sat at Laerwen’s side and said little, even as Gimli had done with his own father. Had Gimli just made a diplomatic error that would cost Erebor all the advantage his father had celebrated earlier? “Forgive me, I” –

“It is nothing, Laerwen.” The elf – Legolas – stood up and walked to Gimli’s side. “We met earlier after the meeting and made plans to speak again this evening. Our hope was to share tales and to learn more about one another in doing so – is cultural sharing not the greater purpose of these gatherings, after all?”

The princess raised her eyebrows, supremely unimpressed. “And so he decided to introduce you to the dwarven cultural tradition of angry shouting?”

“ _Laerwen_.” For all Gimli’s unfamiliarity with elven expressions, he could feel the way Legolas was cringing now in his very soul. It was too familiar – too like when his own father would step in to speak up for him in public situations. “We are fine. Will you leave us, please?”

The prince and the princess traded a long, silent look in which many things seemed to pass between them – but finally Laerwen nodded at Legolas, turned to pin Gimli with a warning glare, and swept back out of the tent.

The silence held for another long moment. At first Gimli could only stare at the entrance to the tent where she had departed, but at last he brought himself to look over at his savior – who was looking back at him with a small, hopeful smile.

That was enough for him to find his tongue. “Thank you,” he managed to say. “And you were the one concerned about making enemies on your first day.” It rushed back in on him – exactly whose tent he had stormed into. “Your Highness. I am sorry.”

“Please.” The prince waved that away. “Legolas will do. But who are you? Glóin’s son, she said – and I remember you were introduced – Gimli?”

Gimli nodded. “At your service.”

“And I am at yours.”

“As I can see.” Gimli gestured toward where Laerwen had departed. “Thank you. Again.”

Legolas laughed. “Again, it is no matter. But now that she believes we are speaking with intent, I fear you will have to stay awhile.” He gestured at the table where the bottle of wine sat. “I have another goblet, if you would like. And perhaps you might tell me what it was that has upset you so, if I am indeed not to blame?”

Gimli hesitated. “I don’t . . .” Had he not just reminded himself that this was not something to be shared? Yet there was a strange temptation in the offer – the thought of sitting down with this stranger-turned-savior, sharing a friendly drink . . . perhaps unburdening his thoughts. Despite all the reasons he should turn it down – his agreement of secrecy; the fact that his father did not know where he was – something in him yearned to accept the invitation.

“You needn’t, if you do not wish it,” Legolas said hurriedly. “Only – I find that sometimes it is easier to talk to a stranger.”

Gimli raised an eyebrow at him – daring to tease. “I think maybe you are curious, and you ask out of self-interest.”

Legolas ducked his head, dark hair falling around his face – and Gimli thought he could detect the hints of a flush in the elf’s brown skin. “Perhaps a bit,” he confessed. “But I will keep your secrets, if you are willing to share them. And I have been told I am a good listener.”

Gimli cast a glance at the mouth of the tent, where Laerwen had disappeared – and where Njolmin had surely returned to his own tent, somewhere nearby. But the rush of anger that had driven him here was fading, and perhaps – perhaps he did not want the easy satisfaction he had hoped for just a few moments before. Suddenly, telling someone the truth was all he wanted to do.

“Very well,” he said. “If you truly mean your invitation – yes, I will stay.”

* * *

Legolas felt strangely disconnected from his body – as though he watched from outside himself with mild disbelief as he pulled up the second chair he had not expected to use – he supposed he should be thanking his father – fetched a second goblet, and filled it with wine. What had brought him to do this? – to invite a dwarf he hardly knew to spend the evening with him? When only this morning he had been sure he would speak to no one here but his family?

And yet he could not help stealing glances up at his visitor. Gimli was not the first dwarf he had seen, even spoken to, but he _felt_ different from anyone Legolas had ever met. Light-skinned, with hair like autumn leaves and dark, burning eyes – and a solidity, a _presence_ , to him that drew Legolas in despite himself.

Gimli looked back, and Legolas flushed, thinking he had been caught staring – but no, Gimli’s eyes were fixed instead on the wooden chair. Legolas bit his tongue before he could ask what the dwarf found objectionable about it, and a moment later, when Gimli looked down at his own mail armor, he had his answer.

“It will hold you,” Legolas blurted, then grimaced. He ought to have waited before speaking up, but now that he had spoken, he must continue. “I mean – if you were concerned about your armor – the chair is sturdier than it looks.”

Gimli looked up at him in surprise, then smiled. “I will trust your word, then, Master Elf.”

“Leg” – Legolas began, but Gimli corrected himself before he could finish.

“Legolas. Of course.” He smiled again and seated himself, tentatively at first, and then with more confidence. “Ah, this _is_ well-crafted.”

Legolas ventured a smile of his own. “We do not have your abilities with metal and gems, surely – save for the greatest of our kind – but we elves do have some small skills in woodcraft.”

“So I can see.” Gimli patted the arm of the chair. “And see – there is one thing I have already learned about elves. So you are already justified in your excuse, and your tale of sharing cultures is no longer a falsehood.”

Legolas’s cheeks warmed. He still did not know what had brought him to lie to Laerwen – only that the panic in Gimli’s eyes had reminded him of his own distress moments before, when he thought he had somehow angered the dwarf. “I suppose that is true. Then does that mean you must tell me something of dwarves in turn?”

“I think I had best swear you to secrecy first,” said Gimli playfully – at least, Legolas hoped it was playful. “For I should surely be stripped of my title if other dwarves found out I was sharing our deepest secrets with an elf!”

Legolas hesitated. Perhaps he ought not to assume here. “If you truly take a risk in telling me,” he began, but Gimli shook his head.

“No, no,” he said. “It is all in fun, but perhaps I ought not to jest in this mood.” He sighed and accepted the wine that Legolas passed him, his face falling back into unhappy lines.

“Then . . .” Legolas perched in the chair on the other side of the table, nerves keeping him on the edge of the seat. “Perhaps for my piece of information, you might tell me what has put you so out of sorts? Whom you were seeking when you first entered my tent?”

Gimli did not answer for a time. He lifted his goblet to his lips and inhaled deeply, then took a tiny sip. Legolas tried not to watch him too openly, but could not keep from hoping – hoping what? That his guest would not be displeased with what he had to offer?

But it seemed he had nothing to fear there. Gimli raised his eyebrows appreciatively, then took a longer sip. “This is good wine,” he said. “I have heard tales of the potency of the wine from the Greenwood – that it comes from the eastern lands?”

“That is true of my father’s favored variety,” said Legolas. “It comes from Rhún and is the headiest wine that we have. But we also press our own, which is inferior to the Dorwinion variety in potency but still sweet and strong. That is what you are drinking now – it is the wine my sister prefers to bring along on diplomatic errands.” She had spoken to him often of the importance of remaining clear-headed in negotiation, particularly with the shrewd dwarves of Erebor – but that, perhaps, he would not tell Gimli yet. He did not know how they were viewed in council, and he ought not give away any advantage, even if Gimli’s mere presence did make him want to share all his thoughts. He glanced at the dwarf sidelong, not daring to meet his eyes for longer than a moment. “And see, now I have told you two secrets of our kind.”

“Then I suppose it is only right that I share with you something in return.” Gimli took another sip of the wine and lowered it back to the table with a decisive clink. “I offer my apology again for bursting into your tent the way I did. My thoughts were clouded and I mistook it for the tent of my . . .” The word that followed was in his own tongue, so unfamiliar to Legolas’s ears that he could not even hope to make out the sounds. Gimli tapped a finger on the edge of his goblet in thought. “I do not believe a word exists in Westron; I suppose the best translation would be ‘blanket-friend.’ He was – he and I, we have . . . an arrangement.”

He said no more than that, as though those words explained the whole of the matter. Perhaps they would, to one more familiar with dwarvish ways, but Legolas did not know as much as his sister – and what little he had learned related more to economics and customs of politeness. “An arrangement?” He could only hope his ignorance would not offend. “I fear I do not understand.”

“Ah.” Gimli stared fixedly into his goblet, seeming reluctant to meet Legolas’s eyes. “It is – I do not know the ways of elves; perhaps such things are different for you. Friends, but – ah – more. By mutual understanding.”

Clearly there was something here that he should be understanding. Legolas turned his own goblet in slow circles on the table and watched the motion of his hands. “If it brings you discomfort to explain, I am sorry I asked,” he ventured.

“No – no, I ought to be plainer with my speech.” Gimli took a deep breath. “We are not _lovers_ , as one might say in Common, for the love of a dwarf is reserved for one other in all our lives, and Njolmin – that is his name – he is not that to me. But among my people, friends might share bodily pleasures without need for love, so long as both are willing.”

“Ah,” was all Legolas could think to say. He had heard that this was a custom among some of the other races, though he found it no easier to imagine now than he had upon first learning it might be done. He wondered what Gimli might see on his face, and tried to clear it of any expression, so that he would not offend.

But Gimli was not looking at his face, his gaze still determinedly lowered. “Njolmin and I did not set out to be thus to one another,” he continued, “but after our first few, ah, encounters, we found that we enjoyed one another well enough to form an ongoing agreement. For the last few months we have sought one another out for pleasure above all others. But it has been some time since he last made himself available to me.” He coughed uncomfortably, his face now nearly as red as his hair and beard. “He has given me no explanation, and I sought to ask him if he had changed his mind, or if he had some other intention.”

“I see,” said Legolas, though he wondered if he ever truly would. He might be able to accept when told that marriage-without-marriage was possible among men and dwarves, but neither his body nor his spirit could form a true understanding of the notion. “I am sorry I did not understand. Such arrangements do not exist among my people, though I had heard that customs can vary among dwarves and men.”

Gimli shifted in his seat, looking wary. “I have heard there are those who find even talk of such things an offense to their customs,” he said cautiously. “I do not know how it stands among elves, but I hope I have not offended.”

“No – no, not at all!” Legolas wondered if they both felt that same urgency, that fear of treading wrongly in a way that risked spoiling negotiations for their people. “No, I – I am not offended, only surprised. It is not tradition that prevents such affairs for us, but impossibility.” He ceased turning his goblet for fear that his nervous fingers would spill the wine and ran a finger around the base instead, watching it trace circles on the table. “For elves, the conjugal act itself is the act of marriage. And so while I have been told that men and dwarves may seek pleasure outside of a marriage bed, I do not understand it myself.”

“Ah.” Gimli looked up at him at last, his look of trepidation melted into one of curiosity. “I did not know that. Is it a secret of your people?”

“Not a secret, but I think it does not frequently arise at trade negotiations!” Legolas laughed, a little too breathlessly, and let his hands slide into his lap to worry one another instead of his goblet.

“You may be right about that.” Gimli settled more comfortably into his seat, some of the tension in his posture vanishing. “Well, are you wed, then? I know that your sister is married, but I do not think I have heard . . .”

“I am not.” The Greenwood had no shortage of heirs, after all – Legolas had always rested easily in the certainty that he would likely never see the throne, and neither he nor Laerwen had ever received the pressure to bear children that he knew kingdoms of men often placed upon their royals. “But such matters are of less concern to elves than to others, I think; we are in no haste to carry on our family lines. You say you are not, but have you ever thought – you and this . . . Nolmin?”

“Njolmin,” Gimli corrected. “No, we are not. As I have said, every dwarf has only one match – one person we are made for. Njolmin is only a friend – or, I thought he was.” His eyes went distant, his lips pursing amidst the auburn mass of his beard.

Legolas ought not to have brought the conversation back to painful subjects – and yet despite himself he was talking again, berating himself even as the words came out of his mouth. “He is a friend, then? Forgive me for asking; it is only – I do not know – how such things go.”

“He is a friend,” Gimli confirmed, “or was – well, I suppose we were closer to friendly rivals than boon companions. But we enjoyed one another’s company – at least, until . . .” He drifted off, brow furrowing.

“I am sorry for asking,” Legolas said hurriedly. “We may talk of more pleasant matters, if you would rather.”

“No need for apology,” said Gimli, shaking his head a little and taking another sip of his wine. “It is only that you have given me something to think on.”

* * *

They conversed for some time after that, trading pleasantries, but Gimli’s thoughts drifted frequently back to that question. Was Njolmin his friend? They _had_ been friendly rivals before, quick to jump into competition in the sparring ring or at the tavern. Indeed, that spark between them was what had first sent them tumbling into bed together – and the time after that, and the time after that.

But once they had agreed upon a regular arrangement – and more, once Njolmin had proposed secrecy – the spontaneous spark of their encounters had died away. And, now that Gimli thought about it, even the ease of their friendship had been absent for some time even before Njolmin had begun to spurn his advances.

It was a matter that warranted further thought – but it proved surprisingly easy to forget so long as he sat opposite Legolas at his little table, finishing goblet after goblet of wine and laughing about elvish and dwarvish customs. The elf was easier to talk to than Gimli would have ever expected after three years of listening to his sister negotiate: soft-spoken but with a surprising spark of wit that frequently startled Gimli into laughter. He had seemed tense at first, but the longer they spoke, the more he softened, until his laughter lost the nervous edge. And it was not until he tilted the bottle and poured the last few drops into Gimli’s glass that Gimli realized how dark it had grown outside.

“Oh!” he said, starting forward in his chair – and only becoming aware of how much wine he had drunk when his body did not move with as much ease as he had intended. “Legolas, forgive me, but I did not realize it had grown so late. My father will be wondering where I am.”

“Oh, of course!” Legolas half-rose from his chair, then stopped, seeming to realize he was needed nowhere else. “And I suppose it is too late for you to go visit your . . . Njolmin. I am sorry to have kept you so long.”

“Sorry, you say, when you saved me from the wrath of the princess of the Greenwood.” Gimli smiled, to show he only jested. “And as to Njolmin . . . I will have other nights to try him. Tonight is no great loss, particularly not for the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” Indeed, he realized as he said it that it was true. “I thank you for your company, Legolas. Will I see you tomorrow in meetings?”

“I will be there.” Legolas gave him another of his hesitant smiles. “It has been a pleasure, Gimli. And – if it is not untoward of me to say so – good luck.”

Gimli laughed. “I thank you,” he said, and with a final bow of politeness he made his way out of the tent, proud that he kept the waver in his step to a minimum.

When he returned to his father’s tent, Glóin looked up from where he sat before his washstand weaving his sleep braids. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “I was beginning to wonder if you had been abducted!”

“I can see how worried you were,” Gimli said dryly. His fingers were clumsy at the fastenings of his hauberk and he swayed as he pulled it off, but he managed to arrange it on the armor-stand without too much trouble. “Well, I am returned, so you may ease your mind.”

“You did not answer.” His father looked at him shrewdly. “And you are slurring your speech. Have you been drinking?”

“I was merely away with a friend, Adad; do not worry yourself.” He did not know exactly why he did not tell his father where he had been – indeed, his father would likely be pleased to learn about his conversation with Legolas. He had often spoken to Gimli about the importance of seeking any advantage in the negotiations, and he would surely be intrigued by this opportunity to learn more about Thranduil’s folk. But even the thought of using his conversation for those ends sent revulsion curling through Gimli’s belly – or perhaps that was the alcohol. Either way, he felt that his unexpectedly pleasant evening was one he would like to keep to himself for the moment.

His father did not release him from his gaze. “You do know you can tell me anything, Gimli,” he said gruffly. “If you wish to.”

Gimli inhaled, then paused. Had he not felt tempted, only a few hours ago, to tell his father everything? But now it was even more complicated than it had been before – as his unexpected realization about the fading of his and Njolmin’s friendship still swam in his mind – and he did not feel ready to share the pleasant surprise he had found instead.

“I know, Adad,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

Glóin grunted, unsatisfied, but he did not press. He turned back to his braids instead, and Gimli rummaged around in his bag for his sleep clothing.

They both readied themselves for the night in silence.

* * *

“. . . is absurd!” puffed Lord Glóin, the white hairs of his mustache seeming to rise away from his face in his indignation. “This is only half the value of what you offered us last year!”

“Half the value in leatherwork,” corrected Laerwen. “The rest of the ‘value,’ as you say, of our offer comes in the form of greater protection for the forest roads and escorts whenever you wish them. Anyway, we are not asking for the same amount of steel from you. I have shown you the numbers – we ask for a reduction by one-third.”

“And you think that your promises will make up for an absence of goods?” Glóin blustered. “We deal in substance, princess, not in words.”

“You do,” said Laerwen. “Specifically, the _substance_ you might glean from increased trade with Lórien and Rhún – which you might do more safely and more often with better roads through the Greenwood.” She smiled slightly. “Think of it as a loan, Lord Glóin – one which will pay itself off many times over.”

“A loan,” scoffed Glóin. “One with no true guarantee of repayment. Surely you cannot expect us to accept such a bargain!”

“I can and I do,” said Laerwen calmly, but layered beneath the coolness of her voice Legolas could make out a hint of the pleased hum that meant she was enjoying herself. “You cannot deceive me, Lord Glóin; I know how your people prize our leather – and I know you would benefit greatly from this promise of protected passage.”

“Presumption,” snapped Lord Glóin. Laerwen raised an eyebrow, but Legolas could still see the twinkle in her eye.

He had watched Laerwen negotiate before, of course, but never in this situation, whose stakes were simultaneously so high and low at the same time, and he could tell that his sister was in her element. In instinct he turned to look for Siril, to share their usual smile at Laerwen’s particular combination of cunning and audacity – but remembered even as he glanced around that Laerwen’s wife was not in the meeting. She had ceded her seat to Legolas, so he might observe the proceedings. As he looked around, however, he caught the eye of Glóin’s son, sitting at his father’s side and saying nothing – observing, like Legolas himself.

Gimli grinned when Legolas caught his eye, jerking his head towards his father and rolling his eyes – then pressing his lips together and blinking in an expression of comic innocence. Legolas almost snorted, and had to cover his mouth with a hand to keep from laughing aloud. He drew himself up in his seat, instead, in a subtle imitation of Laerwen’s challenging posture, and pursed his lips.

It was Gimli’s turn to put a hand over his mouth, and Legolas had to look away, so great was his delight.

Across the table, someone cleared his throat. Legolas started guiltily, wondering if he had been caught – but it was Boromir, the diplomat from Gondor, looking at Glóin and Laerwen. “Forgive me, your highness, my lord,” he said. “It is already past midday, and perhaps we might reach a smoother agreement once we have taken a short recess.”

“I second that proposition,” put forth a second man – Éomer, the negotiator from Rohan. There was a murmur of agreement around the table, and Laerwen and Glóin – both reluctantly, it seemed – set aside their disagreement and turned to leave the tent.

Legolas found himself swept to Gimli’s side as they made their way out into the open air, and Gimli turned and smiled at him once they had left. “I thought we were caught,” he murmured.

“As did I!” Legolas laughed at last. “Perhaps it was for the best that the recess was called – they might have haggled us away into the evening, allowing no other party a chance to speak!”

“Nay,” Gimli shook his head. “They are nearly finished. They will argue for a few moments longer and then come to a peaceful agreement that both will complain about for the rest of the week.” When Legolas raised his eyebrows, Gimli said simply, “I have attended this council for the last three years. Trust me.”

“Then you know that this is my first. Or – well – I told you as much last night.” Legolas’s cheeks heated. “My apologies.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Gimli assured him. “Or – perhaps one thing.” His eyes narrowed, but Legolas could still make out a twinkle of humor. “You might apologize for the strength of that wine.”

“Oh, no!” Legolas could not help laughing again – his father had mentioned more than once that mortals did not judge tolerance for strong drink in quite the same way as elves. “I hope you are not suffering too greatly today.”

“So long as I do not move too quickly.” Gimli shook his head, then winced. “Or do that.”

“I am sorry,” Legolas said sincerely. “I did not think” –

“It is no cause for concern!” said Gimli. “It has nearly worn off already. But perhaps tonight you would like to try Erebor’s spirits for a change of pace!”

“Oh!” Something light and soft expanded in Legolas’s stomach at the ease of Gimli’s suggestion; he had hoped to ask if they were to meet again, but not quite dared to say as much himself. “Yes, I would be glad – I mean, would you have me” –

“I would ask you to play host again, if you have no objection.” Gimli tipped his head to the side in the direction of his father and lowered his voice. “I share my tent with my father, and I would rather not have him breathing down my neck. But I think I can slip away with a flagon of his ale in exchange for your hospitality.”

“Of course!” There it was again, that same breathless lightness, as though he did not stand on the ground but rather hovered just above it. “Yes, I – I would be glad of your company.”

“Wonderful!” Gimli reached up to clap his upper arm. “It is decided, then.”

“Legolas?” He did not know if it was his sister’s stealth or his own inattention, but he had entirely missed her arrival until she stood at his other shoulder, gazing at him curiously. “Did you plan to return to camp for the midday recess?”

“Laerwen.” He tried to disguise his startle at her voice, but her sharp eyes missed nothing. “I am sorry for my delay; I will be behind you.” He gave her a pleading look, hoping she would leave him to finish his conversation on his own.

She seemed to be in a merciful mood; her eyes swept over him and Gimli once more, and then she nodded. “Very well,” she said. “But if you are not, I will return to fetch you.”

“Understood.” He offered her a placating smile, and she gave Gimli a cool nod before leaving them alone.

Legolas turned back to Gimli. “I had best go,” he said apologetically. “But” –

“Sunset?” said Gimli. “As before?” He gave Legolas’s arm a squeeze and then let his hand fall away, and Legolas found himself missing its warm weight.

“Yes,” said Legolas. “Yes, sunset sounds perfect.”

* * *

Gimli hesitated on the edge of the boundary line between the elves’ camp and the dwarves’. He could make it out more clearly than he had last night, when his thoughts had been clouded by that strange combination of frustration and determination. Already it felt so far away now – what had he thought storming into Njolmin’s tent would accomplish? After weeks of silence, he had hoped that a show of passion might bring him what he wanted?

Perhaps it was fortunate – for all the discomfort of that first encounter – that he had stumbled into Legolas’s tent instead.

No – there was no perhaps: it _was_ fortunate. He had found himself looking over at Legolas many times today, seeking to catch his eye or make him smile. After only a single night’s conversation, the elf already felt like a friend, and he wondered what he had been missing the last few years from only fraternizing with the dwarves who had accompanied him.

But then, perhaps it was for the best that he had not made other friends in the last years – for then he might not have met Legolas this year.

All the same, he hesitated outside Njolmin’s tent. Never mind that his friend – or, former friend – had given him no signal earlier in the day; there was still the urge to rustle at the flap, try to summon him –

“Gimli?”

A few tents over, Legolas had pushed aside the flap to his own, and gave a tentative wave when Gimli looked up.

With only the slightest pang, Gimli brushed past Njolmin’s tent and went to join him.

“I have fulfilled my promise,” he said when he followed Legolas inside, hefting the bottle he had brought with him. “The finest ale my father would allow me to bring outside the mountain.”

“Then what of the finer ales you are not allowed to bring? Are those also a dwarvish secret?” said Legolas almost playfully. He had prepared for their meeting today, Gimli saw: the table was already laid with two mugs, better fitted for ale than the goblets that had held their wine, and a plate in the center with slices of bread and cheese, and a small dish of honey.

“Hardly!” laughed Gimli, uncorking the bottle and pouring them each a measure. “Or – perhaps he might claim as much, but in truth it is because he fears to lose even a drop of his favorite drink to the perils of travel. He is stubborn, and grows only more so with every year.”

“I have seen evidence of that today,” said Legolas slyly. “Or so I can only imagine.” He settled himself into his chair, and across the table, Gimli did the same.

“I suppose you have,” he said. “He is always thus – around your sister more than any other, I am sorry to say.”

Legolas shrugged. “She likes him,” he said. “Though she does not say it. She often speaks of him as a shrewd negotiator, and I could tell that today in the meeting she was greatly amused by their debate.” He clapped a hand to his mouth. “Do not tell anyone I told you this.”

Gimli chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said, holding a hand to his heart in mock solemnity. “So long as you do not reveal that I am sure the feeling is mutual.”

“I will not tell a soul,” Legolas vowed. He lifted his mug and held it up to Gimli. “Shall we drink to our obstinate families, then – and unlikely friendships?”

Something warm bloomed in Gimli’s chest, though he had not yet tasted his drink. Unlikely friendships, indeed. “Aye,” he said. “I will drink to that.”

* * *

“So,” Laerwen said to Legolas the next morning when he arrived at her tent. The probing note in her voice had him already tensing, braced for whatever she would say. “You and Glóin’s son spent the evening together again last night.”

Legolas’s cheeks warmed, though he had nothing to be ashamed of. “We did,” he said, lifting his chin. “What of it?”

“Nothing,” said Laerwen airily. “I was merely remarking on this newfound friendship. You enjoy his company, then?”

“Yes.” Legolas fought the defensive tone that edged his voice, and did not quite win. “What do you wish to know? I will not use him to feed you dwarvish secrets, if that is what you are asking.”

“Legolas,” said Siril. She had sat quietly watching the byplay with a smile, but now her voice turned reproving. “Such an accusation is beneath you.”

“And anyway,” said Laerwen, arch, “I travel to Erebor every decade at least, and attend these conferences each year. What I need to know, I can find out myself.”

“Then what is your aim?” said Legolas. His fingers, unable to stay still, toyed with the clasp of his cloak even as Laerwen took her own from the hook beside the entrance.

“Nothing, yet,” said Laerwen. “I merely wished you to know that it has not escaped our notice that you have vanished each day immediately after our meeting reviews.” She leaned down to kiss Siril farewell and disappeared through the tent flap with an impatient beckoning gesture.

Legolas and Siril were left in her wake – a familiar enough situation that glancing at Siril with a shake of the head was second nature to Legolas. “She knows I have no head or heart for such matters,” he said. “I do not even know why I was sent here – Adar cannot truly think I would ever take your place at one of these gatherings.”

Siril smiled, a little knowing. “These councils serve many purposes,” she said. “It might be that you will find he had another aim entirely in sending you here. Indeed – you may find that sooner than you think.”

“Sooner than I – what?” It was not like her to be so mysterious; Legolas frowned at her. Surely she at least would tell him her thoughts!

But it seemed Laerwen was not the only one to be closed-lipped today; Siril merely shook her head with the same enigmatic smile. “And, if you would have the truth of me,” she murmured, as though he had not spoken, “it is not entirely a hardship not to sit for hours listening to your sister wrangle every other kingdom into submission.”

Legolas rolled his eyes, but could not entirely fight back a reluctant smile. “To your fortune, then,” he mumbled.

The tent flap rustled, and Laerwen’s face reappeared. “Legolas?”

He could only see her face, but he could imagine her tapping her foot impatiently. With a sigh, he bade Siril farewell and followed his sister out of the tent, the sound of Siril’s chuckles filling the air behind him.

The dwarves were leaving their tents at the same time, as it happened – and Gimli fell into step beside Legolas without a word, smooth as a stream joining into a river. “Well met again, Master Legolas,” he said, and nudged Legolas with his elbow in a friendly gesture that made Legolas blush, though he did not know why.

“Well met,” he managed in return – and stubbornly averted his gaze from the knowing look on Laerwen’s face.

* * *

Never before had Gimli paid so little attention in a trade meeting.

It was inexcusable, of course – it would have been at any time, but _especially_ this year. But somehow his eyes would find Legolas’s across the table whenever either Glóin or Laerwen spoke up, and they would share a smile, and Gimli would immediately lose sight of the conversation and grapple uselessly until some familiar word showed him the way again. At least, until something else amusing was said and he caught Legolas’s gaze again, and again he was lost. Were he in a mine, his overseer would have sent him home until he could attend more closely to his work.

For the most part, his father did not seem to notice – but he did elbow Gimli a time or two, and Gimli worried that the loss of his focus was all too obvious.

Legolas approached him again when they took their midday recess. “Shall we meet again this evening?” he asked, though he darted a glance over his shoulder as he spoke.

“I would be glad to,” said Gimli. “But I hope you do not only make the offer out of a sense of obligation – you need not be polite.”

“No, no, I” – Legolas shook his head and met Gimli’s gaze again, his face apologetic. “I did not mean to appear disinterested. My sister was questioning me this morning – never mind.”

“Questioning you?” Gimli felt himself tensing against an unexpected surge of betrayal. “Does she think – what did you tell her?” It was not even that he had told Legolas anything particularly damaging, but – it was the principle of the thing, that after their nights of sharing so openly with one another –

“Nothing!” said Legolas hastily. “I mean – she tells me she does not intend to prise dwarvish secrets from me, and I believe her.” His eyes were wide and dark and earnest. “And – and even if she did wish to, I would not share them. I hope you believe me when I promise this.”

He said the last with such sincerity that Gimli was assailed by a surprising rush of warmth and fondness – and a touch of guilt. “I am sorry to doubt you,” he said.

“No, no – it is only to be expected.” Legolas twisted his hands together. “But – I do not know exactly what she wishes, but perhaps you would like to meet somewhere else tonight? We might leave camp; explore the plains a bit.”

“I” – Gimli could not explain exactly why he hesitated. Perhaps it was the nature of the offer: wandering together away from their companions into unfamiliar lands. These gatherings had always been friendly, and all the participants swore an oath of nonviolence on the first day, but still the thought of straying from the others with no protection gave him pause. Or perhaps it was merely that the notion felt too uncomfortably close to slipping away in secrecy or shame. It was true that he was in no rush to be questioned by his father, but he did not want to feel that this newfound friendship was something to hide.

“Only if you feel comfortable with such a thing, of course,” said Legolas in a rush. “We can certainly meet in my tent as before. Or if we stray, we can stay close to the camps – always within earshot of others. And of course you would tell your father where you have gone, so he will look for your return.”

Again he looked so earnest, his fingers twisting into his clothing, and again the sight was so endearing that it overwhelmed Gimli’s defenses. His companions might look at him askance for it, but – he trusted Legolas, in a way he had never come to trust anyone so quickly. The elf meant him no harm, he was sure of it – and perhaps it would be worthwhile to explore.

“I will alert my companions, as you say,” Gimli said, “but you are right. It might be pleasant to take some time away from the crowds of people and talk of business.” He nodded decisively. “I will meet you tonight – at the boundary between our camps?”

“Agreed,” said Legolas, and his face broke into a smile. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

The sun was setting when they met again. Legolas’s nerves had been buzzing all afternoon, since they had agreed to meet once more; he had hardly attended to the second half of the negotiations, and Laerwen and Siril had both had to prod him back into attention when they recounted the events later on in Laerwen’s tent. It was good that Siril had accompanied them, for all she was not able to be present during the meeting; she had attended enough of these events that she understood already all that Laerwen recounted, and the gaps in Legolas’s knowledge were more an irritation than a true detriment to their position.

Still, though, he had endured their pointed looks all through their conversation, and all the while he vibrated as though a swarm of bees had taken up residence in his blood, unable to sit still. And when at last their conversation had finished, he shot off to his tent to prepare, and could feel their knowing gaze on his back.

He did not know why he was so nervous, exactly, if only that this friendship was so new to him, so unexpected, and he feared to tread wrongly even as he longed for more of it. He had re-braided his hair in preparation, even, and now he stood shifting from foot to foot, waiting, glancing around –

Gimli emerged from his own tent a ways down, and Legolas could see his smile even from the distance as he waved and approached. Immediately, the vibrating in his stomach calmed into nothing, and he smiled and waved back.

They set off, remaining close to the campsites at first. Legolas had never been so far south before – his diplomatic travels had been limited to nearby places such as Dale and Lothlórien, and the occasional journey to Rhún with his father. But the open plains and warmer evenings of Rohan were new to him, and he found them fascinating.

Gimli had been here before, he confessed, but he had rarely taken the time to explore beyond the journey. So after some time, when Legolas found himself wandering farther over the grassland, following the path of a stream towards a scrubby rock outcropping, Gimli followed him willingly, looking around in interest.

“I did not realize the mountains were so close,” he said. “I can see them in the distance, of course, but” – he kicked at the dusty ground – “already I can feel the changes in the rock that tell me they are closer than I thought.”

“You can?” Legolas glanced down. “I can hear echoes only; this land does not speak to me like the forest of my home. I hear that it speaks, but it is as a language I cannot understand.”

“A language?” Gimli looked up. “The earth speaks to you?”

“Not . . . exactly.” Legolas closed his eyes and hummed to himself, seeking the words to explain. “Not in words; ‘language’ was only an approximation. Say it is a song, and every thread of life has its own note. I can feel the way the harmonies change against my own song. In the Greenwood, the forest knows us in return, and so it welcomes us with a melody that is familiar to our spirits. Here – this land does not know me, and so it does not sing in a harmony I recognize. But still I can feel it.” He looked over at Gimli. “But you say that you can tell the mountains are near without benefit of sight. Does the stone sing to you?”

“It is not song,” said Gimli thoughtfully, “not, as you say, a melody . . .” The low light of the setting sun cast shadows over his face that made him appear solemn and worldly. “But I know the changing feel of stone beneath my feet, the vibration of my footsteps in my chest, the texture of dust between my fingers.” He smiled a little, distant. “It feels like home.”

Something twinged and fluttered in Legolas’s stomach at the fondness in his voice, the poetry in his words. “That is beautiful,” he said. “It makes me yearn to know stone, almost.”

“And I would see you in your forest,” Gimli said. “Surrounded by the song you describe.”

“Perhaps someday you might come to visit,” Legolas suggested, too carried away in the moment to consider the implausibility of that scenario. “And I will sing you the songs of the trees.”

His mind caught up with his voice then, and he realized what he had said and looked away with a breathless laugh.

But Gimli did not laugh, did not look away. Instead, in a sudden and surprising movement, he reached out and took Legolas’s hand. His palm was warm, his fingers callused and strong, and something caught high in Legolas’s chest, stealing his breath away.

“Perhaps,” said Gimli softly. “Perhaps I might.”

* * *

It was late when Gimli finally returned – far later than the last two nights; long since dark. He tiptoed through the entrance of the tent, expecting his father to be asleep already – but to his surprise a lantern was still lit, and Glóin was sitting up waiting for him.

Gimli stopped in the entryway, pinned by his father’s eyes. “Adad,” he said warily. “I am sorry if I kept you up.”

Glóin waved a hand, dismissing that. “I would be gladder to know where you have been going,” he said gruffly. “Though I think I can make a guess.”

“I make no secret of it,” Gimli said. It was true enough, if not the whole truth – though he had not told his father explicitly whom he had gone to visit, neither had he made any attempt to hide his newfound friendship. “You may ask, if you wish.”

Glóin did not respond to that. “At first,” he said reflectively, “I had thought you must have a suitor – for it is not only on this trip that you have frequently disappeared. Of course it is your right to do so,” he said before Gimli could respond to that, “I know you are grown, but – I had hoped perhaps I might receive some happy news. But you have been morose of late, rather than especially joyful – and now we are here, and you spend every spare minute with Thranduil’s son.” He sighed. “I know where you have been, as I say, but I do not know why.”

Gimli stood still in the doorway, looking at his father, and feeling his stomach sink with guilt. It was true that he had kept their liaisons secret at Njolmin’s request, but – to know that he had led his father on with false hope . . . was that worth this? And was it worth worsening that pain to keep anything more from him?

“Not a suitor,” he said at last. “Never a suitor – only a _bemabâhel_.” He busied himself hanging up his cloak to hide his face. “But not for some time.”

“No?” said Glóin. “And you have found a suitable replacement here, then?”

“Adad!” Gimli’s cheeks burned; he tried to force down his blush by reminding himself that there was no truth in his father’s words, but it did no good. “Do not dishonor a new friendship by suggesting such a thing” –

“It is not, then?” said his father, then, “Save your temper,” as Gimli opened his mouth to respond hotly. “I ask for your sake, Gimli. Your conduct has not gone unnoticed.”

“It matters not what anyone believes,” said Gimli. _Including you,_ he did not add. “The matter is nothing of the kind – and anyway, it is my own affair.”

“For now, perhaps,” said his father. “But if you are so determined, I will not say anything further. I only wished to prepare you for whatever you might hear, and to remind you to be careful.”

As the previous night, they readied themselves for bed in silence, an uneasy lack of resolution hanging in the air between them. But Gimli’s father’s words rang in his head loudly enough that he hardly noticed the quiet.

 _A suitable replacement._ Was that what Legolas’s company had become to him? – a replacement for whatever had been lacking in him since Njolmin had begun spurning his advances? And yet his conversations with the elf were so much more fulfilling than any encounter with Njolmin had ever been. There was a kindred feeling between them, the sense that he had known Legolas for years rather than days – and yet that there was so much more about the elf that he had yet to discover, that he yearned to discover . . .

His hand still tingled where he had felt the ghost-imprint of Legolas’s own – slender fingers pressed within his grip, hard with calluses that must be from drawing the bow in the corner of his tent. The moment rushed back upon him – Legolas speaking with such reverence of the beauty Gimli found in stone; the rush of affection that had overwhelmed Gimli at Legolas’s earnest desire to connect with all the world around him. The way he had reached out without thinking, yearning to find that same connection with Legolas himself.

They had blown out the lantern by now, and Gimli lay awake on his cot, glad of the darkness that concealed his face.

It was some time indeed before he finally sank into sleep.

* * *

The next morning, as Gimli and Glóin were making their way through the Erebor encampment on the way to the parley tent, Gimli was accosted.

“Gimli.” It was Njolmin – the sound of his voice almost unfamiliar after these weeks of silence – ducking out of his tent as they passed. “Lord Glóin, forgive me, but I would have a word with your son.”

Gimli’s heart started in his chest, and cold energy flushed through his veins. It might be an instinctive reaction, born of their long-standing arrangement – but he had the sense that it was something different now, apprehension rather than excitement. If Njolmin wished to speak to him enough to ask for his presence in front of his father, what could he have to say?

Glóin looked at him and raised an eyebrow, and Gimli only shrugged. He was in no danger, at least – though he could not imagine what Njolmin might want from him. But his father accepted it and nodded. “Very well, Master Njolmin,” he said. “Only do not make him late for negotiations.”

“Never,” said Njolmin smoothly. “Gimli?”

For the first time in the four days they had been here, Gimli followed Njolmin into his tent. It was sparsely furnished, but Gimli could see a small table scattered with unwashed ale mugs; Njolmin had been enjoying himself, then.

“Well?” said Gimli. “What is it?”

Njolmin was staring at him, that assessing gaze he had so often swept over him before combat in training or in bed – the one that had Gimli drawing himself up in response, ready to spar. “You have been seen often with the elf from the Greenwood.”

Gimli almost sighed. More of this? “And?” he said impatiently. “What is your concern with it if I have? It must be serious indeed, if you can finally deign to speak to me.”

“I am only looking out for your well-being,” said Njolmin. “I thought you deserved to know you have become the subject of gossip.”

Gimli cast a very deliberate look at the ale-mugs on the table. This was the kind of sparring he was more familiar with, a comfortable routine. In weeks past, it might have had a more playful edge, the indication of more to come, but today he only wished to end the bout so he might return to negotiations. “I wonder who might have been spreading such gossip.”

Njolmin made no counter, which spoke all it needed to. “I only wished to warn you,” he said.

“Very well,” said Gimli shortly. “I am warned. Is that all you needed, or may I rejoin my father now?”

“You are free to leave whenever you wish,” said Njolmin. “So long as you know that your – ah, _interests_ have been noted.”

“Others are free to note what they like,” said Gimli. “I will handle my affairs as I see fit. Until next time, Njolmin.”

He ducked out of the tent and hurried across the camp to where his father stood waiting for him. Perhaps if there were still time, he might catch up to Legolas before the Greenwood elves entered the tent –

He had no such fortune. Even as he quickened his pace, his gaze swept over the field, combing through the other delegates – and his eyes fell onto Legolas just as the elf turned hastily away from where he had clearly seen Gimli emerging from Njolmin’s tent.

A rock dropped into Gimli’s stomach and the energy that had powered his haste drained away. His steps slowing with a strange reluctant guilt, he trudged over to rejoin his father.

* * *

Legolas sat through the day’s meetings in silence.

He heard almost nothing of what was said, of course – but today it was not for the sake of catching Gimli’s eye and sharing a smile at the behaviors of their respective relatives. Today he avoided looking in Gimli’s direction at all – not for lack of desire to look, but out of fear of what he might see if he did.

He had slept not at all last night – had not even attempted. The pulsing of his heartbeat had rung so loudly in his ears that it was a wonder no other elf in their encampment had come to ask him what was the matter. He had sat up outside his tent instead, gazing up at the stars – visible here in the grasslands as they never were beneath the canopy of the Greenwood – and reliving that evening’s conversation again and again: the look in Gimli’s eyes; the feel of his hand –

What was happening to him? What was this feeling? He had never grown so close to someone so quickly, and now all he could think about was when he would next see Gimli, what they might talk about next, what they might share with one another. And then this morning –

He closed his eyes, his stomach squirming at the memory of this morning, leaving his tent early in the hopes of meeting Gimli before the official negotiations began, only to watch Gimli follow another dwarf into his tent. This dwarf must be his Njolmin – his friend-who-was-not-a-friend, the dwarf whose tent he had meant to visit on that first evening – only three days ago? Had it only been three days?

And Legolas had no right to feel such pangs over that thought; that dwarf had known Gimli for much longer than he had, of course. He had no right to claim Gimli’s companionship over one of his own people. And after all, what did it matter to him if Gimli had renewed his – relationship – with his lover? Surely he would not begrudge Legolas his continued companionship. Unless –

“Legolas,” said Laerwen’s voice in his ear. Her hand fell onto his shoulder, shaking him out of his daze. “Legolas, it is time for our midday recess.”

Legolas blinked. The large tent was emptying out around them; most of the others had already departed. “Oh,” he said. “Oh – yes, of course.” He rose numbly to trail Laerwen out of the tent, studiously not looking anywhere but ahead.

Siril was waiting for them at the tent she and Laerwen shared, clearly ready to listen to all they had learned. She ought to be in these meetings instead of Legolas, they all knew it, and he made no effort to join Laerwen in her recount of the morning’s talks. What would be the use?

“. . . Legolas.” Again his name broke him out of his daze, and he wondered how long they had been calling it.

Siril was looking at him with kind eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I – yes, I am fine,” he said, though anyone could tell it was a lie.

Laerwen and Siril exchanged a speaking glance, communicating wordlessly with the ease of thousands of years of partnership. Again, something in Legolas’s chest twinged dully at the sight, but then Siril nodded. “Perhaps you would take a walk with me this evening after the meetings?” she said. “I would learn what is in your heart, when you have the time to properly share it with me.”

He hesitated – but then he remembered her knowing eyes and her private smile the day before, as though she knew something he did not. And she did not seem surprised now –

“Very well,” he said, before he could regret it. “I – yes, I would like that.”

* * *

The thought of that conversation to come gave him the strength to sit a little straighter in the afternoon’s meetings, to push the fluttering in his stomach and the dull ache in his heart aside if only for the few hours that remained. But still he refrained from looking in Gimli’s direction, for fear he might lose the thread of concentration he had managed to grasp.

It was nearly impossible to do, however – when he could practically feel Gimli’s presence in the room as a deep, thrumming harmony in the song of his spirit, a note that pulled at him to join in, to look over – but still, he managed to resist.

Until, that was, the meeting reached its end. He was following Laerwen out of the tent when he heard a voice behind him, a voice that destroyed all his resistance. “Legolas?”

He turned.

Gimli stood behind him, an arm outstretched as though about to tap Legolas on the shoulder. He let it fall as Legolas turned, and Legolas found himself wishing he had waited just a moment longer – and then cringing internally at that wish. What claim did he have – but Gimli did not deserve to be punished for his own confusion and upset.

“Gimli,” he said.

“I” – Gimli hesitated. “Would you like to meet again tonight?”

To meet again? Then he would not be spending the evening with his . . . blanket-friend? Legolas’s heart surged suddenly in an almost dizzying leap of hope. “Yes!” he blurted, without thinking. Then, “Ah, but – my sister-in-law wishes to speak with me. Perhaps we might meet later than usual?”

He regretted it even as he said it – for if Gimli intended to visit his friend later, surely the early evening would be all Legolas might expect? But Gimli nodded without hesitation. “Of course,” he said. “At sunset, then?”

“Yes,” Legolas breathed, his whole body lightening. “Yes – sunset would be perfect. I will attempt to return by then, but if I am not, you may make yourself at home in my tent.”

Gimli started at those last words, and to Legolas’s surprise, his cheeks flushed faintly pink. “A generous offer,” he said, and a tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I will see you at sunset, then.”

He clapped Legolas on the shoulder, and Legolas fancied he could feel the weight of Gimli’s hand even as he walked away.

* * *

When Gimli and his father returned to their tent after that day’s negotiations, Glóin heaved a great sigh.

“I would suggest we discuss what we have learned today,” he said, “but I think such a conversation would consist of me telling you what we have learned, and you nodding along.”

Gimli tensed. There was no use attempting to deny the accusation, he knew – it was fairly made, and he might have told his father half-truths in the last days, but he would not lie to him outright. “You are right,” he said, bowing his head. “I have not attended as I should in these meetings, and I am sorry.”

Glóin lowered himself into his usual chair and gestured to the chest where they had packed their ale, indicating that Gimli ought to fetch a flagon. “I do not mean to accuse you, Gimli,” he said heavily. “It is clear that something is amiss with you, and I would know what it is. I know I have tried and tried to pry it out of you these last days, but for all your assurances, it has impeded your attention and your training here, and it cannot be allowed to continue. I do not seek to blame you,” he added as Gimli winced. “Rather – I would help you, if you would only allow me.”

Gimli uncorked the ale flagon and poured two mugs full, then settled in opposite his father. “Perhaps it is so,” he admitted. “And I do not mean to keep secrets; it is only – I do not know how to begin sorting it through even in my own thoughts.”

“Then mayhap we ought to begin at the beginning,” said Gimli’s father. “Njolmin. Is he your _bemabâhel_?”

What was the use of keeping the secret any longer? “Was,” said Gimli. “But we have not spoken in some time. This morning was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

“Hmm.” His father pinned him with his gaze. “Is he the reason you have been distracted in meetings?”

Gimli inhaled – and then stopped, holding the breath in his chest before he could speak. He had spoken truly that Njolmin’s words this morning had surprised him – and not only because he had not expected Njolmin to acknowledge their arrangement, but because he had stopped waiting for it. He had hardly thought of Njolmin since –

Since he had first burst into Legolas’s tent.

“No,” he said, letting the breath out in a long rush. “No, he is not.”

Still, Glóin’s stare was too sharp for Gimli’s comfort. “And the elf?” he said. “Is he?”

Gimli could not hold his father’s eyes any longer. “I do not know for certain,” he said, casting his gaze down into the depths of his ale mug. “But – but yes, I think he is.”

Glóin said nothing for some time, taking a long sip of his ale and letting his breath out after in a long, open-mouthed sigh.

“I am sorry,” Gimli said, still unable to look up. “I will attend better in the meetings henceforth; I do not mean this to be” –

“No,” Glóin said. “Do not worry about that. I trust your training from the last few years; I believe you were prepared for your future duties even before this year’s council began. And I suspect you had best see this through, whatever it is to become. But I would only say to you again what I have already said last night – as best you can, be careful.”

* * *

“I do not know what it means, Siril,” said Legolas at last, as they turned finally back on the long loop they had wandered and began making their way back toward the camps.

He had told her everything – not the secrets Gimli had shared, but the whole tale of his and Gimli’s blooming friendship; their conversation at dusk last night; seeing Gimli this morning with the dwarf he believed was his lover . . . and all of his own feelings: the pounding of his heart, the pang in his chest, the surge of hope – but hope for what?

“Do you not?” she said. “Are you certain?”

It was her way – with him especially, she so rarely gave him direct answers, especially not when there was some truth that she believed he already knew. But now – he supposed he had hoped she would tell him, rather than waiting for his own speculations.

“I – no,” he said, and he did not know whether he answered her first question or her last.

“You say this dwarf is his lover, in the way of mortals,” she said – her voice calm and measured in a way that belied the storm the words stirred up in his soul.

“Was,” Legolas corrected her. “Or – so I believed. At least, he had not told me anything to indicate that they had taken up their” – he sketched a helpless, nonspecific gesture in the air – “again.”

“And what difference does that make to you?” she asked. “Why might his having a lover upset you so?”

“I – I know not,” said Legolas, but even he heard how thin his voice had become. “I suppose I thought – after yesterday” –

“After yesterday,” said Siril. “You felt that something changed yesterday?”

“Yes? Perhaps?” Still Legolas could feel the pressure of Gimli’s hand around his own from that night, the clasp on his shoulder from earlier this afternoon. “I thought that – that perhaps – I do not know what I thought.”

“No?” Siril rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, just where Gimli had touched him earlier. “I think perhaps you do know.”

“I – do you think” – But it was not a question. He could hear the same note in her voice that he had seen in her eyes the day before. “You think I am in love with him.”

The words came out in a rush, in an almost forceful breath, as though expelled from some deep place within him. They seemed to quiver in the air and something inside Legolas shuddered – not entirely unpleasantly – at the enormity of it: at the incomprehensible vastness of what they might mean, if they were true. If he allowed them to be true.

“What I think on the matter is not important,” said Siril gently. “Do _you_?”

It would be so easy to say he did not know. All day – all last night – he had taken refuge in his confusion, using the newness of the feelings to hide the core of truth that he knew lay beneath. It would be so easy – it was so tempting – to say it again now, to continue to hide.

He did not.

“Yes,” he said, and his voice trembled. “Yes, I think I am.”

* * *

As the sun began to sink towards the horizon, the light warming and shadows expanding, Gimli readied himself to depart to Legolas’s tent. Legolas had said nothing of how they might spend the evening, so Gimli took another flagon of ale with him, in the event it would be needed. After a moment, he added a small pouch of spiced nuts – he did not wish Legolas to think he had come to expect to be served, after all.

His father said nothing more to him as he made his preparations, but still his words echoed in Gimli’s ears: _be careful._ He would be, as best he could, but – whatever was happening to him now was something new to him, something he had never experienced. It was no familiar trail, well-worn beneath his boots, but a new tunnel in a mine – one he had never explored before, but one that might promise him the richest vein of ore, if he could but tread it correctly.

He packed his offerings into a small bag and hefted it in one hand as he made his way out of his tent and across the camp.

The journey was familiar by now, as though he had been making it for months rather than days. He did not knock this time – Legolas had said he might invite himself in, and Gimli would take him at his word. He brushed aside the flap and entered without asking.

And froze.

The table had been set already with wine and two glasses, and one of the chairs was occupied – but it was not Legolas waiting for him.

“Good evening, Gimli son of Glóin,” said Laerwen Thranduiliel from her seat in Legolas’s chair. “Please sit down.”

Gimli stared at her. His tongue had attached itself to the roof of his mouth; he could not form words. Had he entered the wrong tent for the second time this week? But no – this was the same place he had visited all the evenings before –

“I bear no weapons,” said the princess. “You are in no danger here, I assure you. But I would speak to you, if you allow it.”

Her tone made it clear that it was not a request to be idly declined.

Numbly, Gimli made his way to the table and settled into the vacant chair. “Where is Legolas?” he managed, finally finding his tongue.

“He will be here shortly,” said Laerwen. “Do not worry. But his delay gives me an opportunity to ask you something.”

Was she to be the third person today to ask him why he had spent so much time in Legolas’s company? But even if so, Gimli had the suspicion that her reasons for asking would be quite different from his father’s or Njolmin’s. “Ask,” he croaked, wishing he could find his eloquence when he needed it most.

“Very well.” She sat further back in the chair than Legolas did – occupying the full space rather than perching on the edge – but still she was noticeably taller than Legolas. “What are your intentions towards my brother?”

“My intentions?” said Gimli.

She gave a crisp nod. Her eyes were grey as steel, Gimli noticed – he had never seen them so closely before.

“I have come to consider your brother a friend,” he said carefully, finding his tongue again at last. “I have no untoward intentions, if that is your concern.”

“What is untoward to one may not be the same for another,” she said. “Tell me, Master Gimli, do you know what it means for an elf to take a lover?”

Gimli flinched, and boiling heat rushed into his face, neck, and ears. He fought the urge to twist his hair back off his neck like a youth. It was the subject so many of them had danced so cautiously around today – and of all people, he had not expected an elf to state it so baldly! “He said – that is, Legolas told me – that it is an act of marriage,” he managed, wishing that she would turn her piercing stare somewhere else.

She did not. “I am glad you understand that,” she said. “For elves, our love is forever, and the marriage act may not be performed at mere whim.”

“Why do you tell me this?” was all Gimli could say, though his stomach had begun to flap madly with the suspicion that he knew exactly why.

“I tell you so you will understand,” she said, every word as clear and sharp as the point of a blade, “that if you use and discard my brother, you will be very sorry indeed.” She leaned forward, the better to drill her gaze directly through his own. “Are we understood?”

Gimli’s mouth was so dry he could hardly speak, but he nodded. “We are,” he rasped.

“Very good.” She sat back once more and released him from her stare. “That is all I wished to say.” She tilted her head. “Legolas is on his way now, so I will leave you to your evening. I will see you in the bargaining tent tomorrow.”

Gimli could only nod at her back as she turned to leave, trying desperately to calm the pounding of his heart.

* * *

The sunset had almost faded into dusk by the time Legolas and Siril returned to the camp – at first he had tried to slow his steps, not to betray the anxious impatience nagging in his stomach and urging him to hurry – but this was Siril. She understood him – and now, she could surely understand his urgency. And indeed, when he had been able to bear it no longer and quickened his pace, she had matched his step.

But now at last they had returned to the camp, and he could spare her only the briefest of thanks and farewells before spinning towards his own tent. She only laughed behind him, so he thought he would be forgiven.

To his surprise, he encountered Laerwen in the space between his tent and hers, acknowledging him with a nod and a knowing smile. He would have stopped to ask her what her business was, but – that he could do later. Now, he could wait no longer.

Gimli was already in his tent when he arrived, sitting in his usual seat and staring at the table as though shocked. He did not even turn when Legolas brushed the flap aside.

“Gimli?” he said, tentative. Had something gone wrong? “I am sorry to be so late – but I told you you were welcome to help yourself. You have not opened the wine.”

Gimli turned, but there was something strange about his smile – something forced. Legolas’s stomach twisted. “I was waiting for you,” he said. “Did you have a pleasant walk?”

“I – yes.” Some tiny part of Legolas wanted to speak up right now, to burst out with what he had realized, but Gimli’s demeanor and his own reluctance stayed him. Was he certain, after all? And merely because he knew his own feelings did not mean that Gimli would welcome them. It had been only days since they had met, and Gimli had his Njolmin. “I did, but – I am gladder to see you.” Even that felt like too much, and his stomach swooped giddily at the words.

“Then come sit, please.” Gimli gestured at the table. “I brought another flagon of ale in addition to the wine, and some spiced nuts. It is a small offering, I know, but they are my favorite thing to eat between meals, and I have never tasted their like outside the mountain.”

“Oh – how generous!” Legolas hurried to the corner and dropped to his knees to rummage through his bags. He knew he had – yes! “I have more bread and honey, as well. We will feast tonight!”

Gimli laughed – seeming, perhaps, a little easier than before. Legolas’s stomach unclenched just a bit. “I look forward to it.”

Still, though, something was off in the air between them – a discomfort that had not been there before, not since the very beginning. It was enough to keep Legolas’s lips clamped around the words he did not dare to say, to let them beat around inside his chest instead. But he could not meet Gimli’s eyes directly, could not remember how to speak to him as he might once have done in the face of this new, overpowering truth.

Gimli was quiet, too – gazing contemplatively into his goblet of wine, swirling it around without lifting it to his lips, as though the motion of the contents within were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

He looked up at last when Legolas had seated himself: on the edge of his chair, unable to relax further with the fluttering of his heart and stomach. “Well,” Gimli said. “Did you have a good conversation with your sister-in-law?”

The moth wings in Legolas’s belly flapped even more frantically. “Yes,” he said. “Or – well. Yes.”

“And this is Siril, your sister’s wife?”

“Yes.” Legolas nodded, seizing eagerly onto the new topic. “They have been wed since before I was born, so she is as a sister to me, as well – but she is different from Laerwen.”

“Tell me about them, if you would,” said Gimli. “I have no siblings myself, and yours seems – ah.” He pursed his lips. “Especially protective.”

Legolas frowned. “Do you mean – ah, yes.” Gimli must be remembering that first night, when Laerwen had arrived to defend him from a perceived threat. “Yes, she is that. She has always taken that role. Siril once told me Laerwen would fight the world itself for my safety.” Many were the times she had stood between him and a foe, from the tutors in his youth who had ridiculed the lateness of his speech to enemies in the occasional raid. It had felt stifling at times, but he had learned to be grateful for it – especially now, when he knew that she was willingly taking on all the responsibility of these meetings herself while he struggled with these strange new feelings. For she must know at least something of this, even before he had confessed to Siril – he knew there were no secrets between them, and moreover his sister often knew what he was thinking before he did himself.

“I can see that,” Gimli murmured, but before Legolas could question him, he continued. “I am glad you have them. You deserve to have people in your life who look out for your well-being.”

For the barest moment, Legolas wondered if he ought to be offended – but there was so much fondness in Gimli’s voice that he could not question it. His breath caught instead, and he lowered his head.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “And – and so do you. Is your father – I have not met him, outside of the meetings, but he seems – are you close?”

“We are,” Gimli said. “And he would look out for my well-being in the same way your sister would for you, if I would but allow him.” He laughed ruefully. “Just this afternoon, he said he wished I would tell him more than I do.”

“Does he know about” – Perhaps this was his chance, a way to ask the question whose answer he both needed and feared – “about your Njolmin? Your . . . friend?”

Gimli started, and his eyes shifted almost guiltily back down to his cup. “He does now,” he said. “Though I had not told him before. After he took me aside this morning, I could not keep it from my father any longer.”

Legolas’s heart was sinking rapidly, but he made himself ask the next question. “That was him, then? I had wondered.” He swallowed. “Does that mean – are you – has he taken you back, then?”

“What? Oh, I – no,” Gimli said. “Or, I do not know what he thinks, but – that is not what he asked for. We have made no further arrangements since I first told you of him.”

“Oh.” Gimli had said nothing telling, not truly, nothing of his own feelings – but Legolas’s spirits were rising already so fast it made him almost dizzy with the sudden lightness, the easing of a weight. “Oh, that is – I am sorry,” he made himself say, though he was not.

Gimli shrugged. “It is of little matter,” he said. “Even if he did wish to take me back, I could not say with certainty that I would agree, not after all that has happened.” He laughed a little. “But let us talk of more pleasant things.”

“Very well,” said Legolas, and tried to keep himself from beaming.

The conversation grew easier after that, lighter. They spoke further of their families, and then of Gimli’s experience at these trade councils the last three years.

“You say this is your first,” he said. “What think you of it? Will you do anything differently next year?”

“Oh, I – I will likely not be here next year.” This was something Legolas had not thought of, and his heart grew heavy again. “I am ill-suited to this sort of work, if you would have the truth of me. I have followed the happenings of the council very poorly; usually Siril serves as Laerwen’s second in these meetings, and it will surely be thus again next year. This was only meant to be a chance for me to learn, but – I doubt I will return.”

“Oh,” Gimli echoed, and for a moment the space between them grew heavy and quiet. Legolas wondered what the dwarf was thinking – if he too regretted the thought that they might not see one another again; if he too yearned for it to be different –

“Well,” said Gimli at last, with a forced-sounding cheer. “I suppose that is all the more reason to make the most of the time we have, then.”

But as their conversation moved on, and even for the hours that they talked in Legolas’s tent, neither of them could quite muster the same level of merriment as before.

* * *

Gimli returned to their tent so late that night that Glóin was not waiting up for him.

It was all just as well. He tiptoed into the tent, removed his cloak and armor, washed up as quickly and quietly as possible, all with heavy limbs and heavy heart.

All of this was so different from anything he had ever experienced before. With Njolmin – at first, at least – it had all been so simple: a spark of combat, a flash of eye contact, and he had found himself pressed against the wall after their bout had ended, fused mouth to mouth. He knew that spark – knew attraction, desire – and he knew friendship. This was none of those things, or perhaps all of them at once.

He did not know if it was the memory of their starlit conversation the night before, or Laerwen’s straightforward words, or that feeling of closeness, as though he could say anything that came to his mind, that all his thoughts would be safe in Legolas’s keeping . . . but more than once tonight he had had to prevent himself from casually tucking a lock of Legolas’s dark hair behind his ear. From reaching out to where the elf’s hand rested on the table and lacing his fingers through Legolas’s own. From cupping the back of Legolas’s neck with his hand, feeling smooth hair and smoother skin between his fingers, and pulling him forward into a kiss.

He had wanted to kiss him. Now, lying awake in his cot and staring at the night-darkened ceiling of his tent, he still wanted to.

Laerwen’s words echoed in his mind. _If you use and discard my brother, you will be very sorry._ Oh, but he would – and not for any retribution she might enact. If he used and discarded Legolas, he would deserve her wrath and more. He could see Legolas’s face even now: the open, earnest eyes crumpling in pain, the lips pressed together as he tried to conceal his hurt. The way his head would lower as he turned away.

 _For elves, our love is forever_.

The love of a dwarf was forever, too, but how could Gimli be certain – and how could he justify the possibility of causing such pain unless he was?

And yet . . .

“I doubt I will return,” Legolas had said, and a pang throbbed through Gimli’s chest, as though some part of him had been cut away. If Legolas did not come back next year, if they did not see one another again –

How could he risk causing Legolas such pain if this was not love . . . but how could he let it out of his grasp if it was?

* * *

Legolas dressed slowly on the morning of the last day of the trade council, his whole body buzzing with unrealized anticipation, but reluctance dragging at his motions. The sooner he arrived at the meeting tent, the sooner he would see Gimli again – but then, the closer he would be to the end of the day and to the morrow, when they would go their separate ways.

But finally there was no delaying it any longer, and he tied off his last braid and trudged out of the tent towards Laerwen’s.

Siril greeted him when he arrived with raised eyebrows and a scrutinizing look. Surely his expression said all that was needed, but he shook his head at her anyway.

Laerwen caught the whole silent interchange, but she said nothing – which only reinforced Legolas’s certainty that she had been silently aware of everything, all the while. He could not even wonder about it – Laerwen’s ways were uncanny even to him sometimes. But she said nothing to him, only gave him a sympathetic squeeze of the shoulder before leading the way to the main parley tent.

Yesterday, Legolas had not dared to meet Gimli’s gaze; today, he could not look away. Their eyes locked as soon as they both had made their way into the tent, and Gimli’s face spread into a smile – and without his conscious will, Legolas felt his own lips curving up to match.

He made no attempt even at feigning attention today. If this was the last day he would see Gimli, he would look his fill – at the strong lines of his face, the thick auburn braids of his beard, the gleam of his eyes, the kindness of his smile. Let the others in the meeting stare at him if they liked; let them mark his attention – he cared not.

* * *

In the space of only a few days, Gimli had grown used to their routine – that they would trade looks and smiles during the day’s discussion, go with their own people for the midday meal, and then make plans for the evening either after the recess or after the day’s negotiations had concluded.

But today, when the morning’s negotiations were called to an end – the final negotiations, truly, for the afternoon session would consist only of the closing remarks and signing of agreements – Legolas did not follow his sister out of the tent. He went straight up to Gimli instead.

“Hello,” he breathed, smiling a little bashfully. “I thought – I wished” –

He waved a hand in the air as though to finish his sentence in a gesture, but Gimli thought he understood. It was their last day, after all. “Well met indeed,” he said – then, remembering his father standing beside him, “Legolas, perhaps you would like to meet my father?”

Glóin cast Gimli a sideways look, but did not demur outright. “Glóin, son of Gróin,” he said gruffly, bowing to Legolas. “Although you know as much already. At your service.”

“And I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, at yours and your family’s.” Gimli had taught Legolas neither the greeting nor the bow, but he executed both perfectly, and Gimli was reminded – yes, of course Laerwen or Thranduil himself would have instructed Legolas on dwarvish courtesies before he traveled here. “It is a pleasure to officially meet you, Lord Glóin. My sister speaks very highly of you.” He smiled, lowering his voice to a playful whisper. “But do not tell her I said that.”

Glóin started. “Well,” he grunted. “I suppose she is not so bad herself. For an elf.”

“It runs in the family,” Gimli interjected, and Legolas’s eyes caught his once more.

His smile said everything.

* * *

Glóin had left soon after their introductions to fetch his own midday meal, but Gimli did not follow him, and Legolas did not seek out his sister. They sat together instead on a pair of rocks outside the tent, talking of nothing and everything. Legolas could not even remember the contents of their conversation; the only thing he noticed was the fondness in Gimli’s eyes, the gestures of his hands when some topic had him particularly animated. The warmth of his body, so close that Legolas sometimes found himself swaying toward him as though magnetized, before remembering where he was and leaning away.

He had known this feeling only such a short time, but how could he doubt it? And more – what would he do without it?

They were the last ones to re-enter the tent, even as the delegates from the other kingdoms streamed past them, glancing at them sidelong as they passed. Normally Legolas would shrink from this sort of attention – but today, he could not bring himself to care. It felt almost physically painful to peel himself away from Gimli, out of his magnetic field, and take his place next to his sister once more.

They stood behind their chairs this time instead of sitting, all eyes turning towards Boromir of Gondor and Éomer of Rohan. This trade council had been created at the will of the king of Gondor many years before, and centrally-located Rohan was their host; they would give the closing remarks.

“On behalf of the king of Gondor,” began Boromir, “I thank you all for your attendance here yet again. Since the first council many years ago, we have witnessed an increase in our prosperity and our alliances throughout the West. Always, these councils are an opportunity to strengthen not only our trading relationships, but also our friendships.” Was it Legolas’s imagination, or did his eyes rest too long on him, with a wry little twist of his mouth? “I will say little more here, for your agreements may speak for themselves. But as we all sign our agreements on behalf of our kingdoms, we hope to renew alliances and good feelings for another year. Thank you.”

He nodded to Éomer beside him, who took up the thread. “And Rohan too is honored as ever to host this council. We thank all our guests for the visit to our land, and we consider ourselves fortunate to be strengthened by such good neighbors and prosperous trading relationships. Thank you.”

They all bowed their heads in acknowledgement and respect, and then the documents were passed around the table to be signed. Legolas’s role as Laerwen’s second was merely to sign as her witness, and he was grateful yet again for her capable negotiation – and her generosity in not once drawing attention to his lackluster performance. Next year, she would have Siril beside her again . . . and Legolas would be at home in the Greenwood, while Gimli was here.

He swallowed at that thought, and tried to school his face into blankness.

They had agreed to meet at sunset again. They would not have the usual meetings with their delegations following the council, but both the Erebor and Greenwood delegations planned to depart at dawn the next day, and Gimli needed to pack his things. Legolas would have to do the same, of course, but he had planned to pack instead of resting tonight, after Gimli inevitably left his tent. But of course Gimli would need to plan for sleep.

Back at his tent, Legolas wandered listlessly among his things. He knew he might as well pack them now, but as he picked his way through his tent, he found there was little to do. He rolled up his bedroll and put it away – he could hardly imagine sleeping tonight regardless of what might happen this evening – but all he had left to do was dismantle the small table and chairs, and that would have to wait until after Gimli’s visit, anyway. He had kept his tent tidy through the time he had been here, for he had so frequently had a visitor.

And so all he could do as he waited for Gimli’s arrival was pace and wait, and try to force down the jittering restlessness in his belly.

* * *

Gimli had never packed so quickly in his life.

In the space of perhaps an hour, he had already packed away all of his clothing and supplies, disassembled the chair that he had used, and stored everything neatly in his corner of the tent. The only thing that remained to be packed away was the cot he would sleep on, which he would need tonight.

If he slept here, that was . . .

No! That thought was too much, too soon. Again he heard Laerwen’s admonishing voice in his head. The way Legolas had looked at him in the negotiations, the way Gimli had felt himself smiling back, the way they had sat together for all the midday hour – it felt like _something,_ felt like more than Gimli had ever experienced, but – it was too soon to make any sort of certain declaration. Too soon to take any risks with Legolas’s heart or his own.

He would leave his cot here. And he would pack the rest now, so he would not slow his delegation in the morning – but he would not have anything short of the desperate need for sleep take him away from Legolas’s tent.

His father watched him quietly as he made all his preparations, his face inscrutable. At last, when Gimli had placed the last bag in his pile and turned to leave, Glóin spoke.

“I suppose he will do, as elves go,” he said. “But remember my words, Gimli. Be careful with your heart.”

Gimli took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous fluttering of his stomach. “I will do my best, Adad,” he said, hardly believing the words that came out of his mouth. “But I fear it may be too late for that.”

And he left the tent and set out through the camp.

He had almost reached the boundary between their camp and the elves’ when he heard a “Hsst!” followed by his name. He turned, to see Njolmin standing in the opening to his tent, beckoning.

“What?” said Gimli impatiently. “I have places to be.”

“This need not take long,” said Njolmin. “Unless you wish it to.”

He raised an eyebrow in the half-mocking, half-challenging stare that meant he might be inviting a fight or a tumble – the look he had often given Gimli in passing that meant they would be meeting in his chambers later. Once Gimli had found that look exciting: an invitation to a challenge he could not pass up. But now he searched himself and could find nothing more than irritation and even an edge of revulsion.

“What are you offering?” he said shortly.

Njolmin braced a hand on a hip. “I think you know.”

He did know. And even days ago it would have tempted him – the breaking of a long silence; the chance to punish Njolmin properly for his neglect in a way that would be enjoyable to both of them. Perhaps that was even why Njolmin had waited so long, he thought now – but if so, it had had the opposite effect. For what Njolmin offered was the thinnest, paltry kind of pleasure compared to the soul-deep satisfaction he found in Legolas’s company. Even if he might not yet dare to seek this with the elf yet, he would take an hour gazing at Legolas’s bashful smile over any amount of time in Njolmin’s bed.

“I thank you,” he said, “but no. I have wondered for weeks if our arrangement was ended, Njolmin; now I may tell you with surety that it is.”

Njolmin’s eyes narrowed. “Is the elf your replacement, then?” he said. “I think you will find him a sorry companion indeed.”

Again, Gimli recognized the jibe – a barb meant to provoke retaliation. How many times had they shared such interchanges in the past? But, he realized, he was tired of it. “You may think what you wish,” he said. “But I assure you, it is none of your affair. Farewell.”

He turned before Njolmin could say anything more, and made his way to Legolas’s tent.

* * *

Sound traveled differently on the open plains of Rohan than it did in the Greenwood – less muffled by trees, but also less stationary, intercepted or carried by the wind. And so when Legolas heard the footsteps approaching from the dwarven encampment, he could not be certain they were Gimli’s – but that did not stop his heart from racing, his mouth from going dry in anticipation. He rose from his seat, unable to sit still.

And then the footsteps stopped.

He heard two voices, speaking the dwarvish language – one of them Gimli’s, the other unfamiliar. It was not Glóin’s voice, so was it –

His heart sank. This must be Gimli’s friend, the person who had pulled him away the morning before. Perhaps Legolas had been misunderstanding all their interactions today – or perhaps not, but what did it matter? This was their last night; Gimli would leave in the morning and perhaps they would not see one another again. His Njolmin would still be there when Legolas was not; how could Legolas blame him for –

But the voices spoke for only a moment, Gimli’s brusque and short – and then the conversation broke off and the footsteps resumed.

Legolas’s heart went wild in his chest. He could not even remember how to move, how to take his seat once more – and then there was a rustle at the flap of his tent, and Gimli peeked in.

“Gimli,” Legolas managed, his voice dry and creaking.

“Legolas.” Gimli smiled at him, and at the sight of him and the sound of his voice, the tension relaxed abruptly. Legolas _melted_ , his insides dissolving into something warm and soft; the responding smile on his face seemed to fill his whole body.

“Come sit,” he said, and was surprised that his voice had come out with any substance at all.

They sat at the table, and Gimli poured the wine for both of them without being asked this time. It made Legolas glow – the thought that Gimli had come to feel welcome enough to serve Legolas in his own tent. The wine smelled stronger than usual as it swirled into the glasses, the color redder – as though Legolas’s senses had been heightened by the mere fact of Gimli’s presence.

Gimli set the bottle back on the table between them, but he made no move to drink. “Legolas,” he said. “I must tell you something.”

All the breath rushed out of Legolas’s chest. “Yes?” he whispered.

“Njolmin offered himself to me,” Gimli said, his eyes steady on Legolas’s own. “Moments ago, as I was on my way here.”

“Oh.” Something inside him was plummeting, dropping like a nut from a tree. It was what he had thought, was it not? They had said nothing aloud; he had no claim on Gimli’s attention, no reason to believe – He spoke the next words before he could lose his voice. “Then perhaps you will want to leave earlier than we had planned? I would not keep you from” –

“Legolas.” Legolas’s hand had contracted around the edge of the table, but he only noticed how hard his grip had become when Gimli’s hand landed on top of his own: broad and warm and callused – and all it took was that touch for his despair to melt away. “I turned him down.”

Legolas’s breath caught. Those words, combined with the warm look in Gimli’s eyes, the steady pressure of his hand – the fact that he had brought this up to begin with – seemed to speak more than what they said. Seemed to speak directly to Legolas’s heart.

“You – you did?” he breathed.

“Yes.” Gimli smiled at him, and his face was so fond that Legolas could hardly bear to look directly at it – except that it would be worse still to turn away. “I find I have no more need of that kind of friendship. Perhaps not ever again.”

Legolas’s hand trembled beneath Gimli’s, but he made himself move – relax his grip on the edge of the table, turn his hand upside down, and lace his fingers through Gimli’s own. Gimli did not pull away. “Perhaps,” he ventured, “I have no place in the bargaining tents, it is true, but I might come along next year anyway. I could leave Siril her usual place in the meetings and accompany the two of them as an escort, so we might see one another in the evenings” –

“I would be glad if you did,” said Gimli. “But it may be that I would rather not wait a year to see you again. If you meant your words from two days ago, about having me to visit – if a dwarf would be welcome in the Greenwood – I may have to take you up on your offer.”

“Yes!” Legolas blurted. “Yes – I would be glad to have you; I would ensure you were welcome, and I would show you all the wonders my home has to offer” –

“And would you also keep me safe from the wrath of your sister?”

It took Legolas a moment to register Gimli’s words, diverted by the small circle Gimli’s thumb had stroked on his hand as he said them. “My sis – what?”

“Your family is protective of you,” said Gimli wryly. “And with good reason. Did your sister not tell you she and I spoke yesterday evening, before you arrived?”

“You” – But Legolas remembered now how he had seen Laerwen on his way to his tent. He had thought nothing of it at the time, but – and clearly she had known his heart already, and taken it upon herself to – He cringed. “What did she say to you?”

Gimli laughed. “Do not be alarmed, it was nothing amiss. She was only concerned for you.”

“That I do not doubt,” said Legolas darkly. What would Laerwen have said to Gimli – rather, what would she _not_ have said, if she thought he was in danger?

“She only urged me to be careful with your heart,” Gimli said gently, and reached out to brush Legolas’s cheek with his thumb. “It was not at all amiss, for I would never see you hurt – and would grieve all the more if I were the source of the pain.”

Legolas tilted his cheek into Gimli’s hand, feeling like the Greenwood wildcats who would rub their faces against tree bark – never before had he understood that desire so well. “At this moment,” he said, “I cannot imagine ever being in pain again.”

It was not true, of course – indeed, he knew the pain of their parting drew only nearer as the sun sank lower beneath the horizon and finally faded entirely into dark, as night deepened and then lightened into grey pre-dawn. But they sat in Legolas’s tent and spoke of their families and their homes, laughing over old memories and sharing long-held dreams, making plans to write to one another, to visit.

They did not speak of a more permanent future, did not speak of love – but there would be time yet for that. Their hands remained clasped all night, and in the face of such a vast and powerful certainty, it felt like enough.

* * *

Dawn had just broken, gold rays spreading out over the plains of Rohan, when the dwarves took their leave.

Gimli had slept not at all, had taken his leave from Legolas with a last reluctant squeeze of the hands as the sky began to lighten. He might as well have packed up his cot the evening before, and would have been the happier for it this morning – he had not needed it, in the end, though not for the reason he had imagined.

He and Legolas had done nothing more than talk all that long night – had not even kissed, for all those moments that Gimli’s gaze had fallen to Legolas’s lips and his hands nearly trembled with longing to pull him closer. But there would be time for that. This love was different from anything he had felt before; he did not need to rush it, but would let it unfold in its own time – even if that did mean months of letters, months of waiting until they might arrange a visit . . .

Still, he found himself glancing back at the elves even as he loaded the last of their bags onto one of the donkeys they had brought along to carry their things. The elves, too, had dismantled their campsites swiftly; were packing up their horses, and Gimli tried to crane his neck around to catch sight of Legolas, but could not spot him.

His father cleared his throat beside him, and Gimli snapped his head back around guiltily.

“Gimli,” Glóin said gently. “It is time.”

“Yes,” said Gimli. “Yes, of course.”

He followed his father to where the rest of their group stood waiting, fighting the urge to look back yet again. It would come, he reminded himself. It would come.

On foot, their donkeys pacing beside them with their tents and bags, they set off towards the road, the sound of their footsteps crunching in the dusty grass the only thing to break the peace of the morning.

But – there was another set of footsteps now, lighter and swifter, much faster than any of the dwarves in their party – Gimli started at the sound of it, made to turn –

“Gimli!”

Just the sound of the voice filled his whole body with light. Had he been carrying anything, he would have dropped it.

“Legolas!” he exclaimed, turning.

The elf was dashing up to them, a lone figure across the distance between their people and the elves, his hair flying, his tunic askew. “Gimli,” he repeated as he drew nearer, and to Gimli’s shock Legolas reached out for him before the eyes of the whole company. “Forgive me for this spectacle, it is only – I could not” –

Gimli caught his hands without a care for the watching dwarves. “There is nothing to forgive, amrâlimê,” he said, ignoring the gasp that rippled through his companions at the word for _beloved_. “Tell me what you wish.”

“So much,” Legolas whispered, “but in the moment – only this.” And he bent forward, his motion clumsier than any Gimli had seen from him but his expression sure and determined, to press his lips against Gimli’s.

Gimli released his hands and reached up as he had longed to do, catching the elf’s head and guiding it deeper into the kiss, closing his eyes and imprinting the memory deep into his body and soul. This might be all he would have to remember for months to come – but it was enough; it was everything.

“Yes,” he breathed when they parted, pressing his forehead against Legolas’s and feeling his whole body smile. “I could ask for nothing more.”


End file.
